Autumn is my favorite riding season.  It’s quietly exciting visually as the forest changes from green to gold and then bares it’s naked bones.  The falling temperatures push the body just enough to keep you awake and the frequent gray gloom overhead allows the mind to imagine a challenging world.

At least that’s how the road unfolded as I moved along Tussey Ridge.  And for a brief time I thought about politics and the world in which I ride.  They (whoever they are) say all politics are local and after some consideration I think I can agree.  The issue, regardless of what it is, always has a local aspect, even if it’s a world leader considering their personal legacy as they negotiate an international treaty.

When I consider politics I find myself always on the outside looking in.  Even when I could be inside.  Years ago I saw a lot of how the sausage was made while working on a congressional campaign as a photographer.  I remember the day I was asked to photograph the opponent looking bored or “stupid”.  At a press conference the assembled photographers would fire their motor-drives at critical moments of gesticulation.

My camera would be silent, at least until a nose was wiped or a head was scratched.  The shutter echoed across the hall and the other photographers would turn my way.  After two or three shots the opponent’s campaign manager was on to me.  The politics were local.  And dishonest.  When the campaign ended I retired from politics and took up what would become a more honest path as an observer.

Looking at the tree in the field standing by itself, quiet, unconcerned, waiting for something to happen I couldn’t help but think of how much of my life unfolds the same way.  Just waiting and watching.

That may explain the lure photography has had for me all these years.

I’m not an activist or advocate — even about riding.  The recent Poisonous Tradition post was a natural off shoot of the storytelling I do on Scooter in the Sticks — sharing what I see, feel and experience while riding.

The temperature hovered at 50F while I tracked along a reasonably well mannered gravel road.  The high point of flaming foliage is behind us now but a slash of color still dazzled the otherwise monochromatic landscape.  And my back was pleasantly cooperative as well.

Considering my aversion to politics it’s surprising I recently joined the American Motorcyclist Association, a group that supports a number of positions that I find perplexing but I was really just interested in the roadside coverage.

While stopped to make a few pictures I met Ace, a fellow who owns a little farm along the creek.

Ace walked up to the road to see what I was doing and check if I needed help.  We talked awhile about cows and trout and the change in ownership of farms along the Cedar Run branch of Spring Creek.  Ace spotted the Vespa right off but was surprised it actually was a Vespa thinking they quit selling them in the United States decades ago.  After a quick inspection the conversation moved to Fords, and eventually to a shared experience in wrenching on a 1962 Ford Falcon.  He and I both had experience rebuilding the three speed transmission (without synchromesh for first gear) several times. Turns out he’s a master mechanic.

I thought about asking him a few political questions; his thoughts on the health risks associated with woodsmoke, whether loud pipes actually save lives, or whether our freedom was at risk from a growing nanny state.

The observer in me was curious but none of it mattered at the moment.  Ace’s brother came looking for him and I had lunch on my mind.

It doesn’t take much to dissuade me from political discussions.  And even less from religious ones.

Just a little shake of my head and like an Etch-a-Sketch I’m ready for another ride…